The mask that kept the face of pain behind it had no eyes.
It’s hard to see through pain, and hard for those
With eyes to see the pain. Unfocused and ivory, with a rose
And tear upon the cheek, it’s blameless, like a Mardi Gras prize.
The mask worn over something else, the things
We didn’t talk about, pursed lips but had no voice
As if it all was fate, or all by choice;
It stiffens our features with the news death brings.
The mask that bent intelligence to doubt —
That mask — that took me far away from you:
I cannot claim it made my eyes more blue
Or self more safe. We wear them without
Knowing, diminish as they’re growing, only endings clearer
As we clatter to the floor, surprised we were the mask and not the wearer.
Translations from the English 
You surprised me at the end. We think we chose the mask. Ok, drop the mask – who am I? I’m going to live with that image for a while.
Thanks; it’s a confounding thing to wonder about.
I have a whole category I call the Pain Poems. I’ve stopped showing them to my wife. I just tell her I wrote another Pain Poem. She’s tired of reading them. I’m tired of writing them but if that’s what comes , I have to write them I tell myself. I’m giving you an exception to my personal rule. Your Mask poem is well written, interesting and gives a different perspective.